


Freestroke

by fromthefiresofhell



Category: Supernatural
Genre: John Winchester being a dick, M/M, Mentions of neglect, Narrowly avoided non-con sodomy, Prostitution, Swearing, blowjob, timetravel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-12
Updated: 2013-10-12
Packaged: 2017-12-29 06:03:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1001865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fromthefiresofhell/pseuds/fromthefiresofhell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something happened- something swam back to when they weren't supposed to and altered the past. Something that affected Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Freestroke

Time is not an orderly thing as most humans see it, one event right after the other. It is fluid, limitless, an ocean of places and dates and possibilities. All it takes is the proper technique and one can swim through the tides to an opposite shore.

Castiel doesn’t particularly _dislike_ time travel, it can provide useful insight or ingredients for a spell, but he doesn’t abuse the power, either. He doesn’t go back and kill the demon that Dean sold his soul to, he doesn’t go back and protect Dean the countless times he needs protecting, he doesn’t go back and stop Sam from dying, he doesn’t go back and shove himself and Dean out of the way of the dying Leviathan. He could, but he doesn’t. It’s not his place to alter with the past and change the future.

However, one cold October morning, Castiel knows that swimming in those waters is no longer optional.

He knows it the second that reality bends around him and the colors blur together like the edges of a wet painting, shifting and melting together to form an entirely new reality.

Immediately, Castiel pulls his cell phone out of his pocket and speed-dials Dean. As the device rings, Castiel takes in the scene around him with calculating eyes. Before, he was sitting in the park watching the human children play on the playground while their parents affectionately supervised them. Now, though, the playground is twisted and warped, covered in crude, spray-painted words and burn marks. What was once a place of joy is now a shrine of desecrated memories.

“‘llo?” The voice that answers is unmistakably Dean’s, but it sounds wrong. Slurred and deeper and more broken than Dean should sound.

“Dean?” Castiel says urgently. “Dean, something has happened. Where are you?”

“Who’s this?” Dean slurs. “Whaddya want? I tol’ you, I don’ do rep’ts. M’busy.”

This wrong. So _wrong_.

“Dean. Castiel.” When he receives no answer, he says louder, “I’m Castiel.”

Dean laughs. It’s a short harsh sound that makes Castiel flinch. “S’rry buddy, I don’ rem’ber you. Must’a been one’a _those_ nights, ya’know?” 

Not remember him? Is Dean not a hunter in this universe? 

“Dean, _please_.”

“M’ _busy_ ,” Dean repeats, more forceful this time. “Don’ call ‘gain.”   

The links clinks and Castiel is met with an annoying, endless drone that Sam told him means the call was disconnected. He snaps the phone shut and inhales before closing his eyes and _reaching_. His powers may be diminished, but he can still send out tendrils and touch the minds of the humans around him. If Dean doesn’t know Castiel, he doesn’t have the Enochian sigils on his ribs.

Castiel stretches his grace farther and thinner until he finds Dean. But it’s not… _Dean._ His mind-print tells his identity quite clearly, but his brain is clouded and foggy and not right. Frowning, Castiel stretches his wings and pulls himself towards Dean, landing in a dirty motel room.

The hunter is lying on a rumpled bed, three empty whisky bottles around him, covered in circular purple bruises and pressing an ice pack to his neck. When he sees Castiel, Dean jumps up and hitches up the sweatpants that had been hanging low around his hips with a yelp.

“Th’fck?” he slurs, making a desperate grab at the phone on the bedside table. “Ged’ou or m’callin’ th’cops!”

Dean’s body is weaker than Castiel knows it- the muscles beneath his skin are thin and he’s pointy in places that Castiel knows means he’s been too hungry for too long. Heavy bags drag the skin under his eyes down and the gold-green of his irises is blurred with exhaustion and alcohol.

“Oh Dean,” Castiel whispers. “What happened to you?”

Before Dean can respond, Castiel reaches out and touches two fingers to the hunter’s forehead and he collapses into the angel’s arms. With gentle motions, Castiel lays Dean down on the motel bed and presses his palm to his forehead, silently asking for forgiveness for what he’s about to do.

A simple flick at the natural walls built around Dean’s mind crumbles them and Castiel delves into his memories. These memories are dark and painful and depressed, but there are no red splatters of blood or snaps of breaking bones that Dean has often implied he knows all too well. Confused, Castiel pulls out of the man’s head and blinks a few times to focus on his surroundings, and that’s when he sees the bite mark on Dean’s neck.

 At first, he thinks vampire. But no, these are clearly human teeth, clamped down over a spot that’s not located on Dean’s jugular. Understanding flares inside Castiel and he tears at Dean’s mind again, a crushing feeling building in his gut when he focuses on certain points in his friend’s mind.

Something happened- something swam back to when they weren’t supposed to and altered the past. Something that affected Dean. Castiel looks deeper, tossing aside useless memories that he doesn’t want to see filled with unwanted pleasure and sinful acts concluding in the green flash of money and or the white flurry of drugs.    

Finally, Castiel finds what he’s looking for. It’s pointless, but he tucks this wrong-Dean into bed and brushes his hair –longer than the right-Dean’s- away from his sweaty forehead and murmurs a few words of Enochian that drain the blood from under his skin to remove the bruises left by so many unfamiliar mouths. Soon, this Dean will be nothing but a bad memory in Castiel’s head- one that he will try his hardest to forget.

This time when Castiel swims, he lands in a time when Dean in seventeen. It doesn’t take him long to find the bar that Dean remembers, and when he does, he locates Dean at the pool table, persuading the older men that his skill at the game simply beginners luck. They believe it and hand over a wad of bills. Oe even gives him a pat on the back and congratulates him.

Castiel knows from wrong-Dean that tonight, John is hunting a demon and Sam is supposed to be at the motel studying for a test tomorrow. He also knows that when Dean stumbles back to their motel at roughly three in the morning, he finds a note from Sam. A goodbye note. This wrong-Dean tries to find Sam after, tries to hunt him down, but he never does. He never knows if Sam succeeds or falls into the same despair as he does. Castiel thinks that’s what breaks him the most- not knowing what happens to his brother.

After counting the money he won at the pool table, Dean frowns and tucks the roll of cash into his pocket before slinking out of the bar and settling down in the alley beside it, tucking his jacket tighter around himself in the crisp evening air. A few men and even a woman stop to talk to him, but either Dean turns them away or they leave on their own. Desperation starts to curl out from Dean and eat at the air around him and it draws darker souls to him. They flit around the alleyway and eye Dean like a starving man would eye a three course meal, but all decide the better of it after a second glance at Dean’s body. Even this young, his limbs pack extra muscle and the breadth of his shoulders is wider than most.

Eventually, a man who stops to talk to Dean nods when the boy flashes a fake ID (Jerry Smith, 21) and hands him a some money. Dean thumbs through the bills before deeming the amount satisfactory and tucking it into his pocket besides his pool winnings. The pair retreats farther into the alley.

Castiel sighs and follows them. This man is no dark, evil abomination- his intentions are as true as his words. All his wants is physical release, and right now he wants it from Dean.

 When Dean gets down on his knees in front of this stranger, Castiel has to turn his back. This isn’t when _it_ happens, so there’s no need to watch. He doesn’t think he would be able to stand seeing this man treating Dean like he would treat a tissue- something handy and disposable. He has no idea the importance of the mouth he’s currently putting to use or the wealth of the brain in the head he’s grasping. He should be kneeling and kissing the ground at Dean’s feet, not groaning and gasping and saying those vulgar words to Dean’s young ears.

When the man is satisfied, he tucks himself back into his pants and leaves without another word. Dean wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and smacks his lips, scrunching his nose as the unpleasant taste left in his mouth. Still, he has enough money to please his father, and Dean stands in pretense of going home. 

 Before Dean can leave the alley, _he_ steps out of the shadows. Castiel senses it immediately and it’s all he can do not to growl. His plumage rises defensively as the man takes a step towards Dean, predatory smile plastered on his lips.

“I don’t want any trouble,” Dean says immediately, taking a step back. Even so young, his instincts are still those of a hunter’s.

 “Neither do I,” the man purrs. “You’re a very attractive young man.”

 “Look man,” Dean says hurriedly as he takes a step backward, raising his hands in submission. “That over there was a one time thing, I’m not-…I don’t do _that_ all the time.”

“Well then,” the stranger grins. “That’ll make this even more special.”

Abruptly, the man reaches out and fists his hand in Dean’s hair, forcing him down on his knees. Dean lets out a cry when his kneecaps smack against the pavement, but the stranger quiets him with a palm across his mouth. Dean struggles against the strong grip of the man, but beneath his thick coat there is muscle stronger than Dean’s, and the boy is pinned in place.

Castiel clenches his fists by his side. _Not yet_.

“Don’t struggle, honey, or this’ll hurt more,” the man hisses. He pushes-pulls Dean up and against the nearest wall, pressing a hand to the back of his throat. A thick _smack_ echoes around the alleyway as Dean’s forehead connects with the brick wall and his knees shake. Castiel sees a single tear slip down the side of Dean's young face and has to bite into his lip to keep from dropping into existence and beating this man down until he’s nothing more than a bloody smudge on the ground. 

Dean whimpers as his jeans and boxers are yanked down to pool at his ankles and squeezes his eyes shut when the stranger licks a stripe up the back of is neck next to his fingers.

“You’ve never done this before, have you?” the man coos. His voice is sickly sweet, dripping with false affection, and it makes shivers crawl along Castiel’s skin. When Dean doesn’t answer, the man slams his head against the wall again. “ _Have you_?”

“No,” Dean breaths. The syllable is carried on a broken sob.

The man growls, pleased, and rage like Castiel has never known sears up his spine. “I’ll be the first.”

Finally, the stranger starts to unzip his own jeans and Castiel springs into action. His fists connects with the side of the man’s head and the filth stumbles back, eyes wide and fearful when he feels blood start to drip down his flesh.

 Castiel looms over him, a sneer curling on his lips, and feels his control slip a little, allowing the shine of his grace to show through his eyes. The stranger cowers, but Castiel feels no remorse. His soul is as black as a demon’s. He is no longer human and the lesson about the importance of each human life he learned from right-Dean does not apply to this scum.

 “You,” Castiel snarls, voice deep and rumbling threateningly in his chest, “do _not_ touch him.”

 With that, Castiel reaches out and locks his hand onto the man’s head, draining his life force and watching his soul curl in agony as it’s dragged down into hell by a reaper. Satisfaction eases his rage and Castiel turns, preparing to leave now that Dean is back on track and will grow into right-Dean, but a small sound- a soft, broken sob- stops him. One look at young Dean curled on the ground with his arms wrapped around himself, shoulders heaving in silent, dry sobs, and he can’t go. He can’t leave Dean like this.  

Castiel sighs and runs a hand slowly over his face, altering Jimmy’s appearance for just a small amount of time. Bone shifts under his hand and his hair grows longer until he’s not the Jimmy Novak Dean will come to meet years from now in the old barn. Castiel can’t take any chances that Dean’s superb memory will remember his savoir from his earlier years. Humans don’t cope with time travel well.

With loud strides to alert Dean he is walking over, Castiel comes to a crouch in front of his curled figure. The boy looks up at Castiel with red-rimmed eyes, an angry bruise already blossoming over the majority of his forehead, and his lip quivers as he tries to piece together what he has left of his composure.

 “T-thanks,” Dean snivels. His lips curl into a precursor to right-Dean’s cocky grin- the one that hides the pain he’s feeling inside. “You probably just saved my life right there.”

 “It’s no trouble,” Castiel says. He holds his hand out for Dean and the boy uses it to lug himself up. His shoulders are hunched and he stands as if he hasn’t quite grown into his body yet. Teenage awkwardness still clings greedily to his limbs and his face is still open and innocent, eyes bursting with emotion that he will later learn to mask so effectively that he fools his own brother.

“I’m Jerry,” Dean says, holding out his hand.

“Robert,” Castiel responds, pulling the first name that comes to mind that wouldn’t be too suspicious. Apparently, Bobby’s name is fairly common, and Dean lets it slide.

“Do you want me to?...” Dean gestures to the general vicinity of Castiel’s crotch and shrugs, trying his best to come off as cocky and confident through his tears and bruises.

“No,” Castiel insists. “I did not save your life in return for sexual favors.”

Dean’s shoulders relax a little and his smile is a bit less forced. He shoves his hands in his pockets and shifts, glancing uneasily up at Castiel before nodding and taking a step back.

“Well, uh, thanks again. I guess I’ll go now…” Dean turns and pulls his jacket tighter around him, shivering as he walks into a particularly strong gust of wind.

“Is there somewhere I can bring you?”

Dean’s gaze immediately turns suspicious and he glares at Castiel. “Why?” he demands.

“It’s cold out,” Castiel says, twirling a hand around in the air. “I don’t want you to get sick.”

After a long moment of consideration in which Dean seems to be inspecting Castiel, he gives an almost imperceptible nod and sniffles again.

Castiel reaches out with his grace and finds a fairly expensive car, figuring it will help along Dean’s trust in him, and implants a false memory of in its owner’s head of parking it at Dean’s motel to enjoy the cold October night. It’s only about a mile away.

 Dean doesn’t notice that the car starts up without a key or that Castiel’s feet aren’t even on the pedals. He’s curled over himself in the passenger seat, injured forehead resting against the cool glass of the window.

“You should go see a doctor,” Castiel says after a while. “You might have a concussion.”

“Nah.” Dean shrugs, trying for blasé. “I’ll be fine.”

As they drive along, the scent of a fast food restaurant drift through the car and Dean’s stomach rumbles. He presses a hand to it, embarrassed, and mutters something about skipping lunch. A few pokes at his young mind and Castiel comes to the realization that Dean hasn’t eaten in three days. There wasn’t enough food for both of the brothers and Dean managed to convince Sam that he was eating elsewhere.

Castiel pulls into the fast food place and stops the car. Before Dean can say anything, he gets out and walks into the restaurant, coming back out a few minutes later with five triple bacon cheeseburgers and two large orders of fries. When he places the grease-stained bag in Dean’s lap, the boy shoves it away and says he can’t accept it, but one hard look from Castiel and he ducks his head and sheepishly pulls out a fry as if it’s a crime to be eating it.

By the time they reach the hotel, Dean has downed three cheeseburgers and half the fries. The bruise across his forehead is looking worse and worse by the minute but Dean’s stomach is no longer concaved with starvation. He licks the salt and grease off his fingers and wipes the saliva on his jeans before opening the door, bag of food tucked under his arm tightly as if he’s afraid Castiel will take it back. He thanks Castiel again and shuts the door.

Castiel is about to park the car and disappear when there’s a sharp tap on his window. When he rolls his down, Dean smiles awkwardly and glances down.

“I was…wondering if you’d come in with me?” Gone is the self-confident person who’d offered up his own body in payment for his life. Instead, that Dean is replaced with a child, seeking the comfort and guidance of someone older and more experienced in the matters of life. Castiel nods and gets out of the car, following Dean into the motel room.

“I lied,” Dean blurts once the door is closed. “My name’s Dean and I’m seventeen years old.” He hangs his head and digs his toe into the carpet.

 “You should take a shower, Dean,” Castiel urges softly. “You’re probably exhausted.”

Surprised, Dean glances up at Castiel. The look on his face says that he was expecting to be punished, or at least yelled at for his mistakes. More rage ignites in Castiel’s core, but this time it’s directed towards John Winchester. The man can’t find the time to take care of his own sons, make sure they’re cared after or even well-fed. John probably doesn’t even know his eldest has been prostituting himself just to appease him.  

 While Dean is in the shower, Castiel fills a plastic bag with ice from the mini-fridge and makes Dean’s bed. His face hardens when he finds the gun under the boy’s pillow.

Dean comes out of the bathroom wearing an old pair of flannel pants and a too-big t-shirt. His eyes widen when he sees his bed, gaze flickering to his pillow where he knows Castiel must have seen the gun.

“Listen-” he beings, but Castiel cuts him off by raising his hand.

“You need to protect yourself. I understand.”

Dean crawls into bed and snuggles under the blankets, wrapping the duvet around his neck and squirming until he’s comfortable. The press of the ice bag against his forehead makes him hiss in pain, but it turns into a contented sigh when the flesh numbs.

“Would you like me to leave now?” Castiel asks softly as he dabs at the water that escaped the bag and is dripping down Dean’s neck. The boy shakes his head, disturbing more droplets and urging them to slide down his skin.

“Can you-…” Dean clears his throat, obviously embarrassed. A flush creeps over his face. His freckles stand out even more against the redness. “Do you know any lullabies?” At Castiel’s curious look, Dean rushes to explain himself. “My mom used to sing to me when I couldn’t sleep and, well…” He shrugs.

Castiel nods and shuts off the light before starting to sing. It’s not English, but an Enochian lullaby laced with light spell work, and soon Dean lulled into a deep, dreamless sleep. Leaning down, Castiel presses a kiss to his temple before locking the door and flying, unseen, into the next motel room where Sam is staying.

Impossibly young, Sam looks even more innocent than Dean does. He’s currently shoving all his possessions into his duffel bag, muttering under his breath, and tossing looks over his shoulder like he’s expecting someone to walk in at any moment.

Castiel knows that if Sam leaves now, he won’t ever come back to talk to Dean again, and in four months John will die because Sam wasn’t there to save him. And that’s when Dean falls into disrepair, the last straw that shatters Dean Winchester, and Castiel can’t let that happen.

Sam topples onto his bed when Castiel presses two fingers to the back of his skull and when he gently skims the young boy’s mind for the cause of his disappearance, he almost scoffs. This whole thing, the event that ruined wrong-Dean’s life, was because John didn’t let Sam go over his new friend’s house.

It’s not easy to banish the hate that comes with the memory, but Castiel manages, and in the morning when Sam wakes up, he’ll never even know why he was so angry over something so small.

Content that his work his done, Castiel pulls his wings and dives back into the ocean.

It takes Castiel longer to find Dean this time- there was texting involved- but when he does land in the motel room and sees Sam’s bag right next to Dean’s and the hunter himself perched on the edge of the bed, staring intently at Dr. Sexy on the television screen, he think he might sob with happiness. He did it. He fixed them.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean says nonchalantly. “What’s up?”

Castiel doesn’t even hesitate.

In a few long strides, he’s sitting next to Dean on the bed and engulfing him in a hug so tight he doesn’t think he’ll ever let go.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! \^^/


End file.
